


Animagus Issues

by Chuck_Johannsen



Category: Harry Potter - Prince of Slytherin
Genre: Animagus, Gen, Prince of Slytherin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 18:26:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17126486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chuck_Johannsen/pseuds/Chuck_Johannsen
Summary: Why does Lord Voldemort have no known Animagus form? One theory, written for the Prince of Slytherin contest.





	Animagus Issues

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Harry Potter and the Prince of Slytherin](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15828654) by [TheSinister_Man](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSinister_Man/pseuds/TheSinister_Man). 
  * Inspired by [Dodging Prison and Stealing Witches - Revenge is Best Served Raw](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5058703) by [LeadVonE](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeadVonE/pseuds/LeadVonE). 



The moon hung low, its full brightness illuminating the clearing like a floodlight. Rookwood knew of such devices; properly outfitted with engraved Ultra-Violet devices. They proved useful resources against light-sensitive creatures, like vampires and their kin. His own research chamber possessed a dozen such devices, perfect for the study of the supposedly ‘immortal’ beings.

Immortality was such a – _subjective_ – term, when a simple counter existed.

Ward stones, etched in the blood of things he did not allow himself to remember, glowed a faint silver in the moonlight. Unlike the famed Stonehenge, these were intact, hidden from the muggle tourists and their foolish artifact waving. At dawn they would reflect the blood-red sun, and at noon the incomparable yellow-white incandescence that drove away darkness. Yet this was carefully calculated to not be that time.

A faint burning sensation seared Rookwood’s inner forearm. He knelt, one knee on the ground, head lowered in respect. One met his creator in such a fashion, and while Lord Voldermort accepted such a title, he’d granted more power than any mere _Lord_ possessed.

“Augustus.”

Shadows rippled within visual range. “My Lord.”

A faint presence, an otherworldly sense filled his mind. “Your suggestion.”

Rookwood kept his face lowered. “I have liberated a large quantity of research from the Archives. Your gift is unheard of, potentially more powerful than what even the Accords conceived.”

Feather-light steps bent the grass blades just out of sight. Only the faint shadow betrayed Voldemort’s presence, and a few stray green lengths, bending against the wind. An expectant pause made the wind itself hold its breath.

“I brought the ritual components. If successful you will gain the full breadth of the power, although it requires strength beyond description.”

“And if not?”

He shivered at the veiled menace, wrapped in silky tones of command. “The penalty falls upon the oath-giver. In this case, I secured the word of a colleague undergoing treatment in St. Mungo’s, then Oblivated her.”

A faint sensation of pleasure trickled down the back of his spine. He’d always been more sensitive to his Master’s moods; likely a result of the training undergone. Mind Arts were a vague field, even after millennia of study. Master and Apprentice often shared a certain empathy years after their association terminated. Here, he hoped it would not prove detrimental to the task at hand.

“I see.” A pause stretched long enough for Rookwood to begin employing the legendary mental discipline for which he’d become famed in certain circles.

Dark boots, made of unidentifiable hide, stopped within his field of vision. “Well done. I have studied this process at length, and it seems the most likely. You are prepared to begin?”

He wasted no time speaking.

Coarse brushes, hairs dark and reflective, painted ritual markings on the wide flat stone Rookwood had brought. Freshly quarried limestone mined from an abandoned repository came cheap, even cheaper than the exotic feathers the ritual required. The Ancients did not have access to international Portals, or Muggles willing to devote swaths of land to domesticating every kind of avian known to exist.

“Your robe, milord.”

Voldemort looked down on him, chiseled visage high against the moon. Dark hair and solemn eyes bespoke hidden tragedy, as did a minute scar along one high cheekbone. A gift from the Prewett twins in their last engagement – Bellatrix had vowed revenge for that. In silence, the face turned away, dark robes of acromantula silk cascading to the grass. A quick gesture sent the priceless garments over a convenient branch outside the circle taking shape.

Rookwood brought out a new brush. This one was smaller, fine hairs made from the downy feathers of juvenile specimens, freshly hatched. “This took ten minutes five seconds in my trial run. We must begin the ritual as the moon reaches its zenith. Then it will occur. It will be painful.”

A sardonic smile broke over his master’s handsome visage. “Pain and I are old friends. On occasion we even grant each other outlets for our goals. Begin.”

Firm, deliberate strokes painted the concoction on pale skin. Muscles, firm from rituals even he remained ignorant, flexed like goblin-forged chains under impervious skin. Rookwood had seen goblin steel slice the man’s arm in two, and regenerate in less than a day. Truly his Master’s power knew no bounds.

The brush danced higher, drawing symbols half-known solely by their common placement in old texts. Rookwood did not look upwards, distractions would require repeated efforts. There was time, but not enough for a major error.

“I am finished, milord.”

Voldemort closed his eyes, sending a pulse of magic through the drying layers. The semi-fluid grew bone-dry in an instant, something that should not have been possible. He offered no explanation, rising in denuded glory – the sight did not excite Rookwood as he knew it would someone like Bellatrix; but the effect was similar to that of a demigod taking his rightful place. A faint glow from the stones enhanced the effect, granting a harsh light against the silver rays descending from above.

Rookwood fell back as the moon rose. Minutes drifted by, cloying fractions of time, insistent on making their presence known before lost for eternity.

A faint noise jerked his attention back to the center. Voldemort’s face, normally serene or focused in rage, now contorted in unfamiliar fashion.

Rookwood glanced at his notes. “Try to change now. We should know in a few moments.”

Pain-filled eyes glanced his way, then … _changed._

A wolf stood in the stone circle’s center. Silver hair, long and luxurious flowed from quaffle-sized shoulders to a tail longer than Rookwood’s arm. A triumphant howl erupted skywards, cut off at its height in a choking growl.

Rookwood stared as the wolf shifted. Hair receded into the body, growing backwards as it were. Two forelimbs shrank, legs in the hindquarters growing muscle at stupendous rates. The shift stopped as a strange creature balanced on powerful legs and a long tail twitched rabbit-like ears at the moon. It started to hop when the change occurred once more.

This time Rookwood backed away. A snake, its middle wider than three of himself, rose in a coil, towering over the stones perimeter. For a brief instant, a victorious look came into cold reptilian eyes before fading as the change forced itself over the entire form once more.

Sighing, Rookwood sagged to the ground, waiting. The being inside the ritual circle rotated through creature after creature, slowing the shift at times, but never stopping. The longest pause occurred during the phase where a miniature dragon seemed to strain every muscle to break free of the paralysis layer inside the circle. It had raised his hopes; if Lord Voldemort could take the form of a dragon, no matter how small, there were countless rituals that could enhance everything from size to flame breath potency. Their enemies would quail at the knowledge alone, their most powerful magical foe could become nigh invincible to magic, and eat them as well? Yet that too faded away.

As the moon sank, the enforced changes halted. A lone human figure panted in the center of the ritual circle, regaining his breath.

Rookwood gathered clothes and potions, entering the circle once the ward stones faded again. He placed them at his master’s side, retreated three steps and knelt once more.

The whisper of silk, soon followed by the gulping sounds of a potion bottle being drained, let him know his Master did not consider him a threat for failure. The thought of being unsuccessful drove a pain through his mind, an iron spike in the center of his very being.

“It failed.”

He winced again. “It is my fault, Milord. My life in payment for this failure.”

“Your fault, for my sheer potential?” an amused tone entered Voldemort’s voice. “You are intelligent, Augustus. But I doubt you are so capable as to take responsibility for what I am. No, I remain extraordinary, my magic is no less a reflection of myself. In time I will master this little problem. A hundred forms for one individual will be a crowning achievement. After I subdue the rabble.”

Relief coursed through his veins. “You are gracious, Lord.”

“Indeed,” sardonic amusement rumbled through Voldemort’s tone. “We may try this again, after the next raid. Seek out another Oath giver, perhaps one with more will. I felt the strength of the Ritual reduce half-way through. Perhaps next time ….”

“Yes,” Rookwood rose at a commanding gesture. “Yes my lord. You will surely master all of these forms next time.


End file.
